Hand in Hand Through Life We Go
by Ginny3
Summary: Jed and Abbey post ep for Here Today


Hand in Hand Through Life We Go 

Post Ep for Here Today

Reviews are always appreciated.

* * *

After Jed leaves, Ellie and I make small talk while Vic is off taking a phone call. I catch sight of one of Jed's agents approaching.

"Ma'am," he says in that calm, monotone voice that makes me feel anything but calm. I stand quickly; glancing down at my dress to make sure everything is in place. "The President is going on the air, he needs a suit."

"I'll get it," I mutter as Ellie follows me into the bedroom.

"Mom, what's going on?" she asks nervously. She's just not used to life around here.

"No idea, turn on the television," I mutter as I turn on the light in Jed's closet to grab the nearest suit. A quick glance at the TV gives no clue as to what is going on. Something inside of me tells me to take the suit to Jed personally. "Ellie, tell the agent I'll bring this down myself." Ellie sticks her head out the door as I quickly shimmy out of my dress, throwing on a pair of jeans and an old Notre Dame t-shirt of Jed's. I say a quick goodbye to Ellie and tell her to call tomorrow. We all need to make some plans.

I nod my head at my agent as I shove my feet into my sneakers. On the elevator ride down I don't bother asking what's going on, I'll find out in a minute.

By the time I get to the Oval Office they are starting to set up the lights and cameras. I notice there is no teleprompter and Toby's nowhere in sight, usually in situations like this he's sitting somewhere in the Oval scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad.

"Ma'am, he's in there," an agent says as he motions towards Jed's private study. I knock softly and go in. Jed is sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees. Even from across the room he is visibly shaking.

What the hell is going on? It can't be anything on a global scale or even a matter of national emergency. The rest of the West Wing is relatively calm. People are not running around like chickens with their heads cut off. The Joint Chiefs, Secretary of Defense, State none of them are visible. In fact the general atmosphere right now is downright eerie. Even CJ isn't in the Oval Office.

"Jed," I whisper as I quietly close the door behind me. I toss the suit on the couch next to my husband and sit on the coffee table in front of him. I take his hands in mine. I'm startled by how cold and shaky they are. "What's going on?" I ask quietly as I reach out to tip Jed's chin up a little to look him in the eye. He looks on the verge of tears but what's more disturbing is that he has not said a word.

As well as I know and understand Jed and his many moods, I literally can not get a read on him right now. I don't know what it is I see in his eyes.

Is it fear, anger, frustration, devastation? I really have no idea.

"Jed, talk to me," I urge as I try to push down my own growing panic.

"I...I can't," he mutters as he pushes himself to his feet. He moves to unbutton his tuxedo shirt but the small mother-of-pearl buttons are too small and his fingers too thick to get the job done quickly.

"OK, fine, I'm sure I'll find out in a minute. Let me do that," I say calmly as I gently move his hands out of the way. I make quick work of the buttons and push the fabric off his shoulders. He shrugs on the clean shirt but doesn't even try to button it himself. I help him with the buttons and motion for him to stand still so I can knot his tie.  
"Sixty seconds, Sir," someone yells from the other side of the closed door.

"The hell with the pants," Jed mutters as he rakes a shaky hand through his hair. I help him into his jacket, smoothing down the lapels and straightening his tie. Completely mismatched and wild eyed, Jed takes a seat behind his desk. They barely have time to slap some makeup on his face before the director starts counting down.

* * *

Toby.

Oh my God.

Toby.

I can't even look at Jed's face right now. He's still talking and the only thing I can do is watch his hands. They're sitting on the desk in front of him and he's giving new meaning to the phrase, "wringing his hands". With no papers in front of him, he literally doesn't know what to do with his hands. Out of camera range, he twists his thick fingers around each other and messes with his wedding ring.

"And we're out," the director announces, not five minutes after he did his countdown. They dismantle the equipment quickly, record speed it seems like.

And suddenly we find ourselves alone in the Oval Office. Jed is still sitting behind him desk, head in his hands. I can hear his ragged breathing from across the room, that and the sound of the ticking grandfather clock are the only sounds in the room at the moment.

"Jed, take a deep breath and hold it," I suggest from the other side of the room. As much as I want to go over to him and hold him and comfort him, I know that's not what he wants or needs right now. He needs to get himself together, I'm sure make some calls and then he'll be free to yell, scream, cry or whatever else he may have the urge to do.

After a few minutes and some half hearted attempts at getting his breathing regulated, Jed finally lifts his head up a little. His chin now rests on his clenched hands. They are clenched so hard the tips of his fingers are blotchy, white and red.

"What do you need to do?" I ask as I slip into the chair next to his desk.

"Huh?" he asks as he finally looks me in the eye.

"What do you need to do right now?" I repeat as I reach over and nudge his chin off his hands, before untangling his fingers. His hands rest flat on the dark wood of the desk as he tries to gain some sense of time and space. "Jed, you need to start talking or I'm going to be making a call to Admiral Hackett or whoever is on duty downstairs," I warn him firmly. His quiet fury or pain or whatever the hell it is that he is doing his best to hold inside is causing me to, for lack of a better term, freak out.

"I'm fine," Jed mutters in a tone that is anything but convincing. I put my hands on his, marveling at how small they seem. While Jed is by no means a big man, his hands are.

Beefy, I once heard someone describe his hands. Can't for the life of me remember who that was. I don't know that I'd describe them as a piece of meat but they're strong, yet tender. There's a scar on his left pinky finger from where he tried to cut a wooden dowel for a Girl Scout project of Liz's. That was the first of many times I've stitched him up. The thumb nail on the same hand still shows a faint bruise from Memorial Day weekend when he had an "accident" with a hammer when he was trying to prove his manliness and fix the screen door on the farmhouse. Curtis ended up finishing the door while Jed sat on the swing with an ice pack and a pout.

As soon as I move my hands, he lifts his up. Elbows on the desk he watches as his hands shake of their own accord. He quickly crosses his arms across his chest, holding his hands against his sides. With a weary glance in my direction, the stoic exterior crumbles slightly before my eyes. With a sigh I get up and stand behind him, wrapping my arms around him, kissing the top of his head.

"Whatever you need to do, whatever calls you need to make, you're doing them from the Residence," I whisper. Although my voice is soft, I leave no room for arguing. He nods acceptance of the way things are going to be.

I gather the rest of Jed's clothes out of his study while he talks to Oliver, who apparently has been lurking outside the Oval.

"Ready?" I ask Jed as I find him leaning against Debbie's desk. He nods and pushes himself upright.

"Some outfit, huh?" he asks as he motions towards his mismatched outfit before opening the door to the portico.

"Well, your pajamas are waiting," I say with a smile. I shift the clothes to my left arm and reach for his hand. Despite the warm August evening, his hand is cold as he wraps his fingers around mine, holding tight.

The walk to the Residence is slow and quiet. We savor the time alone, not quite knowing what lies ahead.

When we get to our bedroom there's a note from Ellie saying she'll call us in the morning. As Jed goes to the bathroom and changes out of his mismatched outfit and washes off the makeup I realize we haven't talked at all about what happened. Toby's name hasn't even crossed our lips.

But I realize that's the way Jed wants it right now. He wants silent strength and understanding, not counsel and advice. And I am more than happy to offer just that.

Jed wanders out of the bathroom in his t-shirt, boxers and untied bathrobe. His hair is sticking up and there's a toothpaste smudge on his chin. I wipe it away and motion towards the bed. He shakes his head "no" and curls up in the couch.

No sense in arguing with him, I suppose.

I contemplate changing into my pajamas but let's be realistic now. I highly doubt it will be long before someone is knocking on the door, demanding Jed's attention.

Jed stretches out the length of the couch, his head in my lap, his feet on the arm. I brush the stray lock of hair off his forehead. "Do you want to talk about it?" He just shakes his head.

I imagine he's very, very confused right now. It's not a state secret that Toby and Jed haven't always seen eye to eye. Both very smart, stubborn and known to talk first, think second, they have this oil and water relationship. They stubbornly cling to their own beliefs and views until things get shaken up so such that they can't help but work together.  
Both think the other is sanctimonious and self righteous when in reality I don't think that's completely true about either of them. Sure they both have their moments, but who among us doesn't?

So in the silence of our room, Jed laces his fingers with mine, setting our hands over his chest. It takes about 5 minutes for his silent tears to start. He makes no effort to stop them or even wipe them away. His hold on my hand gets tighter and tighter until I have to pull away.

"Sorry," Jed mutters when he suddenly realizes what he was doing. He kisses my fingers, one at a time until he reduces me to tears. With a still shaky hand of his own he wipes my tears away and sets my hand over his heart.

It only takes another few minutes for our peace and quiet to be broken by a knock on the door and the sound of CJ's weary voice.

"Go," I whisper as I press a kiss to his forehead. Jed slowly gets to his feet, holding on to my hand as long as he can. I manage to give his fingers one last squeeze before the contact is broken.

I watch as he ties his bathrobe with clumsy fingers and smoothes his hair back down. He slips into the hallway to talk to CJ. That gesture and his refusal to talk about it with me, lead me to realize he doesn't want our bedroom, the only place that is truly "ours" in the building, to be tainted by what's happened tonight. It's a noble gesture and a sweet thought, but one that will soon be cast aside in the cold hard light of day.

THE END


End file.
